Beyond Duty
by Malva
Summary: War is approaching, but the alliance between Rohan and Gondor has weakened. To tighten the loosened ties, Denethor makes the House of Eorl an offer it cannot refuse. The lives of two people take a different turn.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Lord of the Rings is not mine. This story is written purely for entertainment and no profit is made.

This isn't an AU story since the "universe" is largely the same as in the books. It's more of a "what if" story with Éowyn and Boromir as the central characters.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_Third Age__ 3017_

Lagordir waited patiently for Hama, the Doorward of Meduseld to return. It was not his first visit to Edoras – he had been here before, though it was quite a few years ago. The windswept capital of the Rohirrim set upon a hill with the snow-covered Ered Nimrais in the backdrop was still a sight that moved the heart, even for one such as him who had spent most of his life within the impressive walls of Minas Tirith.

However, once he had been allowed past the gates, he felt that the mood of the city was sombre, and the Rohirrim themselves less open in their manner. Where he remembered swift laughter and a warm welcome before, now there were aloof or even cautious stares. Lagordir wished he could attribute this solely to the Shadow of the Enemy growing in the East, yet he was well aware that relations between Gondor and Rohan had cooled considerably as the years passed. There was no conflict between the two nations, but slowly Gondor and Rohan were turning from being sworn allies to two countries that simply happened to have a common border and some trade going between them.

Times were growing dark and the night would only deepen before any light broke. It was Lagordir's fervent hope that the letter entrusted to him by Steward Denethor of Gondor to be brought to King Théoden of Rohan held something that would renew the ties between the two lands.

The doorward - a broad-shouldered man clad imposingly in bright mail - returned.

"You may enter Meduseld and see the King," he said.

Lagordir inclined his head in thanks and went through the large, gold and jewel-adorned doors that were opened for him.

It was not as he remembered it.

The floor was still paved with smooth stones forming intertwining runes in many hues. The tall pillars that held up the high roof of the hall still had some of the most magnificent woodcarvings he had ever seen, and artfully woven tapestries depicting Rohirrim history were hung on the walls. But the air was stilted and the fire in the hearth in the midst of the hall was barely holding to its life as he passed it by. It was understandable that the windows were kept shut, since it was still winter in Rohan, yet no candles or oil lamps were lit to chase away the chill gloom of the hall.

In his memory this had been a place filled with light and song, enlivened by the free spirit of the Riders of Rohan.

Lagordir's greatest shock, however, came when he stepped close enough to the dais where King Théoden, draped in a fur-lined cloak, sat upon his gilded throne.

The white stone set in a circlet upon the King's brow was the same as he remembered, but the rest of the ruler of Rohan was not. Théoden looked like an aged man. His form was bent, his once gold-brown hair was now white as snow, and many lines craved his face.

Lagordid knew of course that the Rohirrim had shorter lives than those of the high lineages of Gondor, yet a quick calculation of Théoden's age told him that the man should not have been so wizened just yet; especially considering that his mother had been a Gondorian lady of high Númenórean descent.

He tried to not let his shock show as he stepped closer and stopped at the appropriate distance to the throne. Yet he noticed that Théoden's blue eyes regarded him keenly. Whatever had caused him to age before his time had at least not touched his mind yet.

Regaining his senses, Lagordir bowed deeply before the King, introducing himself and stating his purpose. In Gondor this would have continued with exchanging pleasantries and ritualized compliments, but, as he had learned on his last visit, the Rohirrim would consider that a waste of time. So Lagordir did not hesitate to announce right away that he was a messenger who had brought Théoden a personal letter from Steward Denethor.

"Indeed?" The King looked surprised. "Well, bring it forward."

Lagordid withdrew the cylindrical leather encasement which held Denethor's letter rolled up in a scroll. He stepped forward, about to present it to King Théoden, when two spindly hands reached to intercept him.

Surprised, Lagordir snapped the scroll back and looked at the one who had been about to take it from him. It was a man of wizened form, his face was very pale and he had heavy-lidded eyes. As Lagordir looked at him he saw the man's long pale tongue dart out to wet his lips.

Who was this? Lagordir had not noticed this man before. Had he been skulking in the shadows close by? Not difficult to do, seeing how dim the hall was and how dark his robes were.

"Gríma, my counsellor, will take the message," Théoden said.

The King's counsellor? Lagordir could not help the instinctive dislike he felt for the man, but he knew he had to tread lightly.

"My apologies," said Lagordir, "but I am under strict orders from Steward Denethor to hand this letter only directly to the King of Rohan."

He was not lying – those had been the Steward's words. Lagordir saw something flash in Gríma's eyes and wondered if the counsellor would try and gainsay him. He looked like he wanted to.

"Very well," said Théoden.

Gríma retreated and Lagordir bowed his head and walked forward. He kneeled on one leg on the first step of the dais and proffered the encased scroll to King Théoden. The King took it and Lagordir respectfully stepped back.

Théoden did not waste any time. He unbound and opened the encasement and then broke the seal and unfurled the letter.

While the King read, Lagordir glanced at the counsellor. Gríma was staring at the King's face with an absorbed look, as if he was trying to decipher the contents of the letter from his expression alone. Lagordir felt disturbed for a reason he could not pinpoint; after all, wouldn't it be normal for a counsellor to try and guess his ruler's mind and mood?

The King did not reveal any particular expression though, except his eyes widening briefly. Lagordir's curiosity about the content of the letter increased.

When Théoden finished reading he looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Gríma," he finally spoke.

"Yes, my Lord."

"By my order a meeting is to be assembled in the hall. Prince Théodred and the King's Riders, as well as all noble lords and ladies within Edoras at this time are to come to the Golden Hall."

"My Lord?" Gríma questioned, his eyes darting to the letter held in the King's hand. Lagordir too wondered what was in there that would merit calling for the whole court on such short notice.

"Make haste," was all that the King said.

The counsellor hesitated only for a moment, but then turned around and went to the left, taking a side door that led away from the main body of Meduseld. Lagordir noticed that on both sides of the Golden Hall were doors. It was likely that they led to where rooms and chambers for the royal family's use were situated.

"My King, shall I go and fetch Prince Théodred?" a woman's voice suddenly asked.

Shaken from his musings, Lagordir barely kept his surprise hidden. His eyes sought out the source of the voice and for a moment he could not help staring.

There was a woman standing at the left side of the King's throne, a bit behind it. She was so beautiful that for a brief, foolish moment Lagordir thought he was imagining her, and he was no green youngster easily swayed by the looks of a woman.

She was tall and slender, clad in a dark blue gown. It accentuated the fairness of her skin and the bright gold of her long hair.

How had he not noticed her before? Had she been standing in the shadow of the throne of the King all this time? Lagordir noted with dissatisfaction that he was being uncharacteristically unobservant today; first he'd let the presence of Gríma slip his notice and now had failed to see such a lady.

She had stepped forward a bit, to lean closer to the King. He grey eyes glanced at Lagordir briefly and he felt that there was coolness in her gaze, something unapproachable.

"No, Éowyn, stay here. What the Steward of Gondor has written to me concerns you the most," said the King.

Lagordir remembered now that King Théoden had taken in the children of his deceased sister into his house. This had to be his niece then – Lady Éowyn. He did not remember seeing her on his last visit, though that had been quite a few years ago. He wondered what exactly in that letter was connected to her.

Lady Éowyn too looked perplexed.

"How would it concern me?" she asked.

The King gave Éowyn the letter. "Read it, sister-daughter. You have the right to."

The lady took it. She hid her expression almost as deftly as the King, but once she had arrived at a certain point in her reading, she could not mask the shock that appeared on her face.

Lagordir now felt as if he would give nearly anything to know the contents of the letter. But if his suspicion was right, he would soon find out anyway. After all, why else would Théoden call for an assembly of his court so hastily, if there was not something in the letter he wished to announce publicly?

Éowyn soon gave the letter back to the King without saying anything. After that she stood silently beside his throne. Théoden looked at her once, some shadow of concern briefly showing in his eyes, but her gaze seemed far away in thought.

Soon people began to gather in the hall. Among the first to arrive was Prince Théodred.

"Father, what is this about?" he asked once he was close to the throne. His eyes did not miss the paper scroll held in Théoden's hand.

"You shall find out when all are gathered," Théoden said.

It looked like Théodred wanted to ask more, yet he obeyed his father and went up to the dais, taking his rightful place on the right hand side of the King's throne.

Lagordir knew that Théodred had to be the same age as Steward Denethor's eldest son Boromir. In contrast to his father's aged form, he was the very picture of what made the Horse-lords so impressive – tall, broad-shouldered with a head of thick, golden hair, and a handsome face with eyes as keen and blue as his father's. His manner was confident and he held himself proudly, but there was no arrogance in him. Men would easily follow such a man.

The messenger had to admit that considering Théoden's dissipating vigour it was comforting to know there was a strong heir to the throne.

By now Lagordir had stepped to the left of the dais and stood there. Gríma had returned and sat at the right side of the dais and the messenger had no desire to share space with him. The counsellor looked nervous from which Lagordir inferred that the man was not used to not knowing what the King was up to. Now that everyone was swiftly gathering, this man was still the only counsellor close to the King present. Were there no others? He would have to mention this Gríma when he reported to Lord Denethor back in Minas Tirith.

Lagordir had been sent as a messenger by the Steward not only because he was loyal and trustworthy, but also because he was observant. Lord Denethor had told him to pay close attention to the political atmosphere in Edoras. What he saw was far more interesting and at the same time far more troubling than he had expected. Lagordir caught many mistrustful looks being cast Gríma's way.

When everyone had gathered and the previously desolate hall was filled with voices and the shuffle of feet, the Kings spoke. His voice carried strongly.

"Noble lords and ladies, the King's Riders, I greet you and thank you for coming so swiftly."

All heads were bowed and Lagordir noticed no looks like those that had been directed at Gríma. These people obviously still respected their King and followed his orders readily.

"You all have been called here today because you are to be witnesses. This very day a message from the Steward of Gondor was delivered into my hands."

A quiet murmur went up in the hall after this was announced.

"Many know that the alliance between the Riddermark and Gondor has not been as strong as it was of old. The days grow darker and if we are to withstand them, old alliances must be honoured. But what ties can be made, what bonds forged that would not break even in the darkest hour?"

Everyone was listening intently to Théoden's every word and Lagordir himself was as riveted as the Rohirrim.

"There is no stronger bond than that of family. Within this letter the Steward Denethor of Gondor has proposed the forging of such a bond between the ruling houses of the Mark and of Gondor. With this letter he is asking in the name of his eldest son and heir the Lord Boromir for the hand in marriage of my sister-daughter, the Lady Éowyn of Rohan."

Lagordir barely kept his mouth from hanging open. There was uproar in the hall, as gasps were heard and voices erupted in shock.

Whatever he had expected, this was not it. There had never been such a match made between the ruling houses of Rohan and Gondor, not in all the centuries since the Oath of Eorl to Steward Cirion. This was testament to how serious Denethor was about re-establishing this alliance. If he had simply wanted to form some blood bond, he could have proposed a match with Faramir, his younger son. But he had proposed a match with his heir which would mean that the two nations would be irreversibly tied as long as a Steward of Lord Boromir's and Lady Éowyn's heritage ruled Gondor.

There was one more aspect to this that showed Denethor's craftiness in full – refusing a highly prestigious and honourable match such as this would be a diplomatic slap in the face to Gondor and would quickly sour the relations between the two lands. The only wise and reasonable choice should be to accept.

Lagordir now understood why Théoden had given Lady Éowyn the letter to read beforehand. Finding out at the same time as everyone else in court would have been too shocking. It had been a kind gesture from the King to his niece to let her know ahead.

Her face now was smooth, no emotion was showing. He wondered at such self-control in someone so young.

He glanced at the Prince. He looked shocked and was looking at Lady Éowyn, as if he could hardly believe it. Lagordir stole a look at the counsellor then. The man's hands were clenched in fists, knuckles white. His pale face was still, but Lagordir felt as if he was keeping some great feeling barely suppressed. Then he saw him look at Lady Éowyn. It was a brief look, only a flash, but in that second Lagordir caught something bared in the man's gaze that made his stomach turn.

The King held up his hand and immediately the voices in the hall quietened.

"The Steward of Gondor does the House of Eorl a great honour indeed," he said. "Yet the customs of our people have ever been such that no daughter of the Eorlingas should wed unless she is fully willing. Thus, no matter how great the honour, it is not mine to accept. In this the last word belongs to Lady Éowyn."

A subdued wave of voices washed through the hall and Lagordir saw many heads nod in agreement.

Of course, he should have remembered that the culture and customs of the two lands were quite different in these matters. The noble maidens of Gondor were raised with the mindset that they should accept an arranged match for the prestige of the family and the preservation of the Númenórean lineage. In Rohan, however, where lineage was not as important as a man's ability to prove his individual worth, even maidens of noble families were allowed to choose freely.

As the King, Théoden was expected to set an example for his people. No matter how favourable he thought the match to be, he could not frankly pressure his niece into it. Lagordir doubted anyway that the King would have done that even if arranged marriages were as common in Rohan as horseshoes. He had taken his niece into his House and kept her close, so it was obvious that he regarded her as if she were his own daughter.

The fate of this alliance hung on the words of one woman.

This could spell trouble. Lady Éowyn appeared to be the kind of person who took her duty to her King and country seriously; however, she was still a young woman. In Lagordir's experience, gained by having two daughters of his own, young women were prone to romanticism at the most inopportune of times.

"This is a great decision to make and thus some time for consideration must be given," the King said.

A murmur of consent could be heard from those who had gathered.

However, Lady Éowyn suddenly leaned quickly down to the King's ear and whispered something to him. He looked at her carefully.

"Are you certain?" he asked in a muted voice. Lagordir barely heard the question, but saw the lady nod.

"Lady Éowyn shall speak," the King announced.

What would she say? Had she made a decision already?

There was a determined, steely look in her eyes as she stepped forward so that everyone could see her clearly. Lagordir's heart thumped quicker in his chest. He glanced at Gríma. The counsellor's eyes were riveted to the lady and the anxiety in them was barely withheld.

With her chin raised proudly she spoke: "I hold to witness all who are gathered here. I have made my decision."

It felt as if the entire assembled crowd within Meduseld held their breaths waiting for her next words. Lagordir hoped she made the right choice.

* * *

Boromir knocked on the smooth, wooden door.

"Enter!" Denethor's voice called from inside.

He opened the door and went in, closing it behind himself.

"My lord," he greeted and bowed his head in the proper sign of respect to Denethor as both the Steward of Gondor and his father.

"My son." Denethor nodded curtly from beyond the large, document-laden desk.

He gestured to the high-backed chair across from him. "Sit."

Boromir did and then waited for his father to turn his attention towards him.

Denethor leafed through a few documents with a quick, discerning eye, but then set them aside at last and looked across the desk at his eldest son and heir.

"I have news that are of interest to you, Boromir," he said.

"What news?"

The Steward opened a locked drawer in his desk and took out a letter. Boromir immediately recognized the broken seal of the King of Rohan on it, though it had been many years since he had last seen it. He knew only one reason why the King of Rohan would write to his father after decades of increasingly aloof relations between the two countries.

"Lagordir returned from Edoras today and he brought with him the reply sent by King Théoden," he said.

He reached across the desk to give the letter to Boromir, so that he could read it. It was brief, though by no means lacking in courtesy – the words were straight-forward and surprisingly genuine. One thing stood out for him in the letter that immediately reminded him of why he had found Rohan so refreshingly different from Gondor all those years ago on his visit.

"So she has given her consent. 'Fully willing' as it stands written here," he said.

"Indeed." Denethor nodded. "I must admit that had been a concern of mine. The women of Rohan are not raised with the same understanding of duty to their family and lineage as the noble maidens of Gondor. I feared she would be too stubborn or, worse yet, already head over heels for some young rider. However, it seems that Lady Éowyn has some sense about her, even if she is of lesser Men."

Boromir had long ago learned to hide his discomfort when he heard his father speak like this. Denethor's pride in Gondor and its Men sometimes clouded his eyes to the worth of other peoples. He was a great man, and the shortcomings of others only seemed all the harsher to him, measured against his own vast qualities. But Boromir knew that his father had no time to rule with a gentle and tolerant hand, for the threat of the Enemy was growing every day.

"You know, my son, that I would have gladly seen you enter a match with a maiden of true Númenórean lineage. But as you showed no interest in any of the numerous offers, I was left with little choice. I still would have rather seen Faramir wed this woman of the North, but such a proposal would have left Théoden room for doubt and would not have exerted the right amount of pressure on his niece."

"I understand, father. I do not mind it; the alliance has to be strengthened," Boromir dutifully replied.

He truly did not mind. There was no woman that held his interest, certainly none among the several maidens of "true Númenórean lineage" that circled him like simpering vultures whenever he appeared at social gatherings. The only woman he had ever loved had been already married when he had fallen in love with her and thus all it amounted to was admiration from a distance.

Boromir had long ago come to terms with the fact that he would marry for political reasons only. When his father called him into his office a few weeks ago and told Boromir that if he had no one in mind that he wished to wed, he would arrange a marriage that would strengthen the failing alliance with Rohan, Boromir had not been surprised. He had agreed easily, knowing that Rohan's loyalty would ensure the aid of their formidable military when the safety of Gondor and its people was threatened.

The sole personal hope he held for his marriage with Lady Éowyn was that he could come to a mutual understanding with her. That way their conjoined life would at least not be unpleasant.

Nevertheless, some small part of him had almost hoped that she would use her right as a woman of the Eorlingas and refuse the marriage. Not for his sake – for hers.

Boromir remembered the swift-hearted Rohirrim and the love they had for their wide, rolling land and their unrivalled horses. He had to wonder how a woman of those people would fare within the seven stone rings of Minas Tirith. He had been born and raised here and thought there could be no fairer city in the world and no greater people, yet when he had visited Rohan even his heart had been swayed by its free winds.

"When am I to travel to Edoras for the official betrothal?" he asked. In that at least he knew that the customs in Rohan and in Gondor were similar – the first step should be taken in the bride's home.

"King Théoden agreed to my proposal that the betrothal should be held at the end of the next month," said Denethor. "You are then to return to Minas Tirith with her for the wedding ceremony. I want this to be done as soon as possible."

"Very well, father," Boromir said.

The Steward did not speak anything more after that and turned his attention to the documents on his desk. Boromir excused himself and left him to his work.

As he walked down the hall in the direction of his own chambers, Boromir only fleetingly dwelled upon the fact that soon he would be a married man. There were plenty other things that occupied his mind.

Denethor looked more aged, the wear of his cares more apparent as of late. A man of his lineage should still be full of vigour at his age. Boromir had his suspicions as to what made his father's strength trickle away before its time. A few times he had noticed a faint light flash from the narrow window of the highest level of the Tower of Ecthelion, well into the dark hours. He knew what was kept there and it worried him greatly that his father might be using it. A palantír – the Anor-stone.

To use it was dangerous if not outright folly. The Anor-stone was most in accord with the Ithil-stone which had fallen into the Enemy's hands when Minas Ithil had been taken. Yet the one time Boromir attempted to broach the subject, Denethor had refused to discuss it at all and had let him understand in no uncertain terms that he would tolerate no further questions on the matter.

Boromir rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. In his own study adjacent to his bedroom a stack of reports about the military activity on Gondor's southern and eastern borders was waiting for him. He expected no good news there. Gondor's enemies were growing bolder and more aggressive each day. They were also becoming more organized. Though Boromir doubted there was any man who had more pride and faith in the courage and resilience of the people of Gondor than him, still his mind found it difficult to rest and his heart was beset with foreboding.

When the dam broke, would Gondor withstand the oncoming tide?

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**Author's note:** I would greatly appreciate it if you would let me know what you think of the first chapter. I will be quite busy for the next couple of months so I can't tell when I will update with the next chapter, but I know in what direction I want to take this. The idea for this fanfiction has been plaguing me for a while, so I could not resist writing it down and putting it out there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

In her chamber the window shutters were tightly closed and thick drapes were drawn over them. Though the snow had melted away and the days were growing milder, the evenings still clung to the chill of winter. Éomer was sitting in one of two chairs by the fireplace, Éowyn occupying the one opposite him.

The crackling of the fire was the only merry thing in the room as she observed her brother's uncharacteristically brooding look. She knew that neither the silence, nor the scowl would hold for very long – he had never been one to keep things bottled up.

At last he looked at her and asked: "Are you seriously going through with it?"

She frowned. "I declared my intention before the King and the entire court. Do you expect me to go back on my word?"

He was taken aback by her sharp response. "I did not mean to imply that you would ever break a promise."

Éowyn sighed, letting some of the tension leave her body. "I know you did not. Trust me, none were as surprised as I about this offer," she said, in a softer tone.

"I must admit, when the news travelled to Aldburg I did not know whether to believe it or not. Now I come back to Edoras and find the whole city in an uproar because my sister has indeed agreed to wed the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor. And then I hear how our Uncle announced it to the whole court and put you on the spot…"

"Do not hold that against him, brother. Théoden is a King first and only then our Uncle. You must understand why he made that kind of decision."

Éomer sighed. "Aye, I understand. The news spread like a wildfire after that and by now everyone in Rohan knows how serious Gondor is about renewing its ties to the Mark. Our people need hope and reassurance in these times, some sense of security, however faint. To be honest, I am simply unhappy that I was not here for my sister when she needed me."

In truth Éowyn too wished he had been there - she loved her cousin and her uncle dearly, but there was no person in the world as close to her as her brother. But seeing how troubled he was by this, she did not wish to burden him further.

"You could not have helped that," she said gently. "You have a duty as Third Marshal now."

Éomer had been named Third Marshal of the Mark only a month ago. It was a high honour considering how young he was, but he had earned it. The past month he had been in Aldburg, patrolling the Eastfold which was now his charge, just as it had once been their father's. He had arrived in Edoras late last evening.

As proud as Éowyn was of her brother's achievement, she missed him terribly. But at the same time she was glad that he was not in Meduseld day in and day out. She could not count how many times she had to calm Éomer down and convince him that going after Wormtongue would only land him in a cell. Her brother had always been protective of her. Éowyn becoming a Shieldmaiden and learning to wield the sword had not lessened his protectiveness one bit.

Éomer looked at her in an almost hopeful way. "I suppose refusing was not an option?"

Her lips twitched in amusement. "I'm afraid not. That would have certainly soured relations for centuries."

Éomer could not disagree with that assessment. After coming to Edoras, his and Éowyn's education had been overseen by their caring but strict grandmother Morwen. Among other subjects, they had been tutored on the history of Gondor and he remembered enough of those lessons to know that the memory of the Dúnedain stretched very far indeed. They were not a people who let go of the past easily.

Irritated by the entire situation, he drew his hand through his hair. Éowyn chuckled. He threw her a questioning look – as good as it was to hear her merriment, Éomer was not glad that he was apparently the source of it.

"What?"

"You seem to be intent on making your hair fit for a bird's nest in spring," she teased.

Éomer attempted to flatten whatever mess he had made on his head.

"You're making it worse!" she berated. "Sit still."

She rose and went to the small dresser by her bed and took out a comb then stood behind Éomer and began untangling the mussed braiding. He soon relaxed and recalled a memory now tinged with melancholy.

When he had been just a little rascal, back in Aldburg, he used to return home from a day of playing outside, looking like he had been dragged through the plains by a herd of wild horses. His mother had as always scolded him as she scrubbed him clean in the bath, seeming more amused than irritated. Afterwards she had wrapped him in fresh, dry linens and taken a comb to his tangled mess of a mane, gently unravelling it until he looked like a proper little lord again. It was one of the brightest spots in his childhood memories.

It occurred to him now that he would soon be parted from the closest family he had left.

"What will happen now?" he asked.

Éowyn's hands faltered only for a moment, but then continued their task. "Lord Boromir will come to Edoras at the end of next month for the betrothal. After that… I will go to Gondor with him. The wedding will be held in Minas Tirith."

"So soon," Éomer muttered.

She could not deny that it was, but neither did she want to confirm it out loud and so said nothing.

A quiet fell between them. Éowyn set aside the comb and began re-braiding Éomer's hair. Her mind drifted as her fingers formed the desired patterns assuredly.

The last three days after the messenger from Gondor had left, Éowyn had barely had a moment to stop and think. Her time had been spent in a flurry of preparations. Soon she would not only be becoming a wife, but leaving her homeland.

While she had begun thinking of life in Edoras as a cage, now that she was handed a key of sorts, she did not know how to feel about it.

She remembered Wormtongue's look when she had announced to a hall full of the Riddermark's nobles that she was accepting the offer to marry Boromir of Gondor. For the briefest of moments his face had been revoltingly twisted in a rage that bordered on madness. She had felt sharp, piercing triumph – for once he was powerless to meddle and turn things in his favour.

If he were given half a chance, Wormtongue would do his utmost to convince the King to refuse Gondor's offer. He had gained such a grasp on Théoden that Éowyn feared he would have succeeded and irreversibly ruined relations between the two countries. Declaring her consent right away in front of everyone ensured that there was no way Gríma could thwart the decision without endangering his own position.

Since grandmother Morwen's passing three years ago Éowyn had taken over as Lady of the Golden Hall. The last couple of years she had been waging a silent war against Wormtongue's growing influence within the hall of her ancestors. Each day was like an uphill battle. Every small victory took enormous strategic manoeuvring and effort.

By the end of the month she would be betrothed and heading to Gondor. After that she would wed and settle into a life leagues away from Gríma. His covetous gaze would no longer follow her, nor would he haunt her every step and hiss his poison-drenched words at her. A part of her would be glad to leave Edoras behind. Yet she felt anxious because she would no longer be able to watch over Théoden...

She finished braiding Éomer's hair. "Done."

"Thanks." Éomer turned to her with a smile on his face. It faded when he saw her expression. "What troubles you?"

A sigh escaped her before she could hold it back. "I worry for Uncle Théoden."

"I should tell you, sister, that Théodred and I aren't completely useless," said Éomer, trying to strike a lighter note by sounding mock-offended.

Her smile reappeared. "No, not completely."

Éomer huffed in annoyance. "I, on the other hand, am worried that you are marrying an old man," he said.

She laughed outright at that. "Do not let Théodred catch you saying that. He told me that he and Lord Boromir were born the same year."

He smirked, eyes glinting in mischief. "Like I said – an old man."

Éowyn shook her head at him, amused. "He's of a noble Dúnedain line. You know they live longer and age slower. And what does it matter anyway – it is an arranged marriage."

"Are you truly alright with it being this way?" Éomer asked, suddenly looking very serious.

"What do you mean?"

"I admit that as a brother I never wanted to dwell much upon the thought of my little sister getting married. But I hoped that when it did happen it would be with someone who cherished you as you deserve," he said.

Éowyn felt taken aback at her brother's earnest words. She could feel her throat tighten with emotion and she swallowed thickly.

Truth be told, Gríma's disturbing attention these past few years had made her shun all thoughts of love. She had known love but once and briefly, and it had ended in sorrow, nipped in the bud before it could come to full bloom. Only later did she suspect that Wormtongue might have had a hand in that. From that moment on Éowyn avoided any attention from a man lest he would end up like her girlhood love - carried home on a shield.

But now, after what Éomer said, she realized what she was giving up.

Marriage was the natural course of life for most, and even a hardened warrior would expect to one day have a warm hearth and home, and above all someone to share it with. Now she most likely would not have that; her hearth would lack a true fire.

However, in the comparatively few years she had lived, Éowyn had already endured more sorrows and disappointments than some met in a full lifetime. So she would do what those hard-learned lessons had taught her – square her shoulders, hold her head high and march on.

"We all have our lot in life. This is simply mine" she said, the line of her mouth firm and unyielding. "Besides, Théodred has met Lord Boromir, and told me he is a noble and worthy man. I might not have love, but such a man would not deny me respect. And I will be glad to know that I have helped our country, our people."

Éomer stood up from his chair and without a word enveloped his sister in a hug. "I wish sometimes that you would let yourself be more selfish, Éowyn, even if just a little bit."

The sincerity of his words and the assuring warmth of his arms around her struck a chord that she had been trying to keep quiet too long and tears welled quickly in her eyes.

Éowyn knew that Éomer would leave for Aldburg again the day after tomorrow. It was likely that he would be busy with patrolling the land until he was called to Edoras for her betrothal ceremony. He would come to her wedding in Minas Tirith, and after that he would return to Rohan. And she would stay in Gondor – a land she had never once been to, where everyone she met would be a stranger. Who knew when she would see anyone of her family again? The only way of keeping contact would be writing letters.

"I will miss you," she whispered, winding her arms around him tightly.

"And I you."

Éowyn and Éomer stood thus for a long time, clinging to each other like they had not since they first came to Edoras after losing their parents.


End file.
